


Dress for Dinner

by disgruntled_owl



Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula - Bram Stoker
Genre: Drinking, Manipulation, Trick or Treat: Trick, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 04:06:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12473112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disgruntled_owl/pseuds/disgruntled_owl
Summary: Imprisoned in Dracula’s fortress, Jonathan Harker passes his days in desperation and his nights in dread. In between, he must dine with Dracula, before the Count takes his own repast.





	Dress for Dinner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Verabird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verabird/gifts).



I tighten my tie around the gashes on my neck. My reflection in the window pane reveals my sunken cheeks, their hollows lit by candlelight. I wipe away a lingering stripe of shaving soap and dab cologne on my throat; on this, the Count insists.

An ancient bell echoes in the great hall beneath my chamber. I close my cuffs over wrists stippled with scabs—the remains of kisses from monstrous lips—and slip into my jacket. As my hand closes around the doorknob, the bell tolls again, and dread rises from my belly into my chest.

We have abandoned all other formalities, the Count and me. He slumbers by day, without ruse or excuse, while I feverishly scour this castle for a way out. By night he hunts prey I dare not fathom, while I cower in unlit rooms, listening for the mirthless, shattered-glass laughter of his women. What little sleep I get comes in irregular gasps. Still, each evening I wake at this hour to crimson skies and the scent of smoke, when the Count demands I join him for dinner. 

Wrought-iron candelabras throw light on the floor below me as I descend the grand staircase. The Count’s shadow ebbs and spreads as he moves from the hearth to the table. I savor these final moments before I must meet his menacing eyes and voluptuous mouth, both of which grow redder by the day.

The Count sits beside me at the table, in evening dress fit for Regent Street, and watches me consume his offering. He makes no explanation for his empty plate, though the mewling, tear-streaked innocent he fed his wives hints at what sustains him. He merely smiles his way through this bankrupt performance of civility, in which I am compelled to participate.

The smell of the food brings me no pleasure. It is always the same. The Count has hunted the creature that has become my repast; a byproduct of his feral nature, though he shows no taste for such game. His Gypsies have dressed it. He has roasted it himself. A lonely strip of flesh, its skin caramelized, the fat and muscle dripping faint red juice. The platter is flanked by gold knives and forks. All but two have gone untouched for weeks, for the fare is far too simple to warrant their use. The wine in the chalice is dark and still, all but coagulated. 

This meal pales when compared to the one the Count provided the night I arrived at this forsaken place: a full roast chicken, greens, and cheese. My heart had rejoiced at a feast to replenish me after a night wandering through a landscape of horrors. These nights, the Count gives me ever-dwindling portions; I must receive no more than what would keep me alive to do his bidding or whet the appetites of his infernal brides. Otherwise, I might be strong enough to retaliate or make my escape. 

I eat the meat in slow, spiteful bites, glowering at him as I chew. But when it comes to the wine, I cannot control myself. I drain the cup in desperate gulps. With each passing night, my thirst grows stronger. Without a word, he fills my cup again, and then again, from an arabesque decanter looted from a Turk’s palace. The wine forms a river that transports me beyond this place of ceaseless terror. Halos form around the candle flames. The kernel of fear in my chest briefly opens, warms, unfurls.

I see the Count grinning as the room shimmers and swims. In this drunken haze, the points of his teeth seem to have vanished. At this moment, his face is level with mine, and I delude myself into believing we are equals. 

“Tell me,” I blurt, smacking the wine from my lips. “Why must we engage in this charade? I am your prisoner; in all other affairs, I am no more than an animal to you. A beast-of-burden, or livestock for slaughter, that could be fed just as well from a trough.” I pound my cup down on the table. Wine droplets spatter on the back of my hand.

The Count’s lips purse and twitch. A small voice in my mind whispers that I should stop myself, but my tongue, unloosed by wine and resentment, has lost its inhibitions. 

“You force me here and make a show of me, while you eat nothing, drink nothing, piling on more and more evidence that you yourself are no man-”

His features snap into focus. My breath catches in my throat. Cold sweat beads on the back of my neck. I remember I am dealing with a dangerous creature. 

Wooden chair legs scrape against the floor. The Count stalks behind me, and with hands as cold as the hour before dawn, he unfastens my tie. He leans in to inhale my cologne. I, in turn, can smell him: copper and dust. The wine sours in my belly. I wait for him to speak. I hear no sounds but the sniffs of his aquiline nose and the slither of my tie as it drops into my lap.

He spreads open my collar and clutches my shoulder. Beneath his grip, I dare not move. He tilts my head; the points of his fingernails graze my jaw. Those pursed lips part, releasing putrescent breath, and he scrapes his fangs on a patch of unblemished skin on my neck. A few droplets of blood seep forth; he laps them up and pulls away. It is a gesture made all the more dreadful by his restraint. 

“Why my generosity, Mr. Harker?” he purrs. “It is because I am so very grateful for all the meals to come.”


End file.
